


Unclearly

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [107]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Complicated Relationships, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nightmares, Past Torture, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28781337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [107]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Unclearly

_Claws, in his hair, long and sharp and bony, scraping over his skull and dragging through knots and greasy curls-_

_Wilson gagged out a wheeze, blood gushing out of his mouth and leaving behind a hot iron tang, a thick film on his tongue as he gasped for air, and his own hands fisted in the damp, waterlogged earth but there was **nothing** he could do to ease the pain._

_It pulsed inside him, throbbed with the raging, gushing wound in his chest, the inside of his throat torn bloody, something that had clawed itself inside him and then burst its way out, and the air smelled damp with past spring rain and smouldering ashes and that far too familiar smell of his own spilled blood._

_A brief tug drew a low, almost whimpered hiss out of him, talons curling in his hair and yanking his head up for a moment, before letting him drop back down as he shuddered through the agony._

_It was his own fault, not preparing more torches beforehand. Even worse, that he just tossed his last light source, damp and flame flagging, into the closest bush._

_It hadn't caught fire, only smouldered, put itself out with a sizzling glow that left him to the mercies of what the dark unknown of the Constant contained._

_The pain was encompassing, pulsing in time with his heart as he bled out, and those talons continued to pet through his hair, graze sharp prickling tips over his scalp._

_A low hum, rising from the darkness, swallowed up in the night, and Wilson shuddered, eyes squeezing closed as that hand drew from the top of his head and trailed down his cheek, an almost delicate motion, softer touch._

_It curdled inside him, nausea that bubbled within his chest, mixed dizzy by the pain and dark and Knowledge of coming death, and Wilson rasped for air, torn raw throat scraping harshly each time he swallowed, each time that humid chill air flowed through him and then out, seeping in shallow bursts from his chest, a punctured lung, past broken ribs and mangled flesh, seeping out along with his lifesblood. It wouldn't be long now, he drunkenly realized, a throbbing numb darkness promised just over the horizon._

_It was almost over._

_Movement jolted him, blinking his eyes open to the dizzying swirled grey black of darkness before closing them again, and claws dug into him, sinking through his already well bruised skin as he was half dragged forward for a moment. He bled more from the wounds, he knew he did, but at this point all Wilson could do was lay here and wish it would end faster._

_It wasn't cold damp dirt that met him, as he was laid back down once more, shallow fast breaths wheezing in and out of him as his strength flagged, but instead something else, softer, dry-_

_A hidden blistering heat, and that heavy, thick cloying smell of living nightmares._

_"Well, pal, this must be the longest you've stayed yet."_

_Droned low and prickling above him, and those talons were back atop his head, threading through his hair, sweeping his own blood back in a greasy disgusting swirl that pasted his hair into even more ugly knots and twists._

_Wilson remembered, vaguely, being so proud of his hair. He remembered a time where it had meant so much more to him than anything else, almost on par with his keen sciences._

_Too long ago to fully grasp anymore, and wild living must have reduced him to a near mad man appearance; the frog ponds took so much effort in clearing out most days, and bathing was a leisure, not an occuring chore._

_That didn't seem to matter to those talons, attached to that shadowy form stinking of spiced nightmare oils and thick, heady tobacco and rotting, decaying flowers. He didn't open his eyes, but Wilson was almost sure if he tried to look he would only see shining empty blind eyes and far too many teeth - another shadow to haunt his living, dying nightmares._

_"A new record, hm?" Another hum, and talons scratching chaotic patterns atop his skull, nagging against his skin, but Wilson was too far gone to even acknowledge the prickling sensation, drowning under the flood of pulsing ambient pain and agony and another gurgled burst of blood past his lips, choking on it as he twitched feebly from the strain. "Something to be proud of, Higgsbury; not many survive the dark for this long."_

_There was a snide, mocking edge to it, to that dull deep voice, and still those talons pet him, unbroken contact that trailed through his greasy thick hair with an almost content, pleasant silence._

_His sense of the world was shrinking, shorting out in black and white and static numbing bursts, shocks that urged him on with his gasping, the cold damp dirt underneath him and yet something far softer, far warmer under his head. His own hands twisted, jerking as he gagged on air that rippled down his raw torn throat, new agonies that brought tears to his eyes and spilled without his control, and Wilson-_

_-chocked out a gargled whimper, shuddering as the pain and agony started to eat him alive. Fabric caught in his hands, buzzing numb static and that almost silky heat of shadows before solidifying, and vaguely, just above him as cruel sharp talons descended atop his head, Wilson could hear another crooning hum seeping through the darkness._

_"It's nothing to cry about, pal, nothing at all." Claws dragging over his head, petting over him with a softened pace, as if he wasn't **dying** , as if he wasn't **suffering**. "...Enjoy yourself while it lasts, and perhaps you will fare better next time."_

_Spoken quietly, as if to the side, as if not truly to him, but Wilson was just holding on now, gasping for air as his body shuddered and reacted violently in his death throes, and those talons continued to pet him through it all, soft hushes and crooning hums, holding his head close and laid in the shadow Nightmare Kings lap._

*

When Wilson opened his eyes, he could see the firepit and its dancing flames, still going steady and untouched. 

Camp was silent, besides for the odd murmur or shifting of the sleeping, and out in the darkness of night the ambience of insects, soft treading shadows and the whisper gossip of the trees echoed in the silence.

Above him Wilson heard Maxwell sigh, the slightest of a rattle in the sound, and the hand atop his head moved slow, drifting gloved fingers through his hair.

For a moment, Wilson had to close his eyes again, swallow with more than a bit of effort as he went tense. The dream fog wasn't suffocating, fading away in the chilly autumn night air, and yet…

Carefully Wilson sat up, felt the hesitant pause of the other man before Maxwell pulled his hands away. He scrubbed at his eyes, took another steadying breath, this time only a faint stutter in his chest leftover from the nightmare, and his dull claws came away dry but for all the world Wilson couldn't help but think it should be otherwise.

He didn't know whether he should be grateful, that he just didn't have it in him to shed more tears for the past.

He could hear his partner suck in a breath, that chronic, constricted rattle, and a brief glance told Wilson all he needed to know; Maxwell could not quite be called the most observant but his face had drawn low, dark eyes dull and cast with concern as he watched Wilson, hesitant and cautious, patient.

Camp was quiet, and they were alone with their cheap, flimsy privacy before the fire; the mask held in place right now was lesser in comparison to any other.

But before the former Nightmare King could speak up or ask something of him Wilson waved him off, stood up with only a brief moment of having to close his eyes, regain his balance and feel the blood rush in his ears.

That's what he got, for falling asleep like that. He hadn't intended to nod off, or slump against the other man in his exhaustion, but Wilson supposed it had been an attempt to give more comfort when Maxwell had moved him to lay his head in his lap, laid his hands gently to his hair.

"It's getting late. I'm heading to bed."

His tone didn't leave space for questioning, especially when Wilson didn't exactly leave any time for such a thing; the moment the words left his mouth he turned his back on the other man and beelined to his tent, not willing to do anything more or anything less.

Maybe later it would occur to him on just how that might have come off to the older man, but right now fatigue dragged on him like a headache and his chest ached with a half memory of pain, a nightmare that had him shiver from the cold and try to forget the nausea and prickling nature of being touched.

Vaguely he could hear a murmured low "...Goodnight." behind him, but it could have been his long suffering imagination as well; Wilson wouldn't put it past his mental state to be haunting him after recalling something so clearly like that.

Seated now atop the beefalo fur bedding, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes, Wilson stuttered out a weak breath, then hissed the air back in through tightly clenched teeth, counting to five between each action, feeling his lungs and the systems of his body, focusing on them as he breathed. 

Faint flickering memory, _prickling talons, touching and petting and **torturing-**_

The air whistled out of him with an almost sound, a throb in his chest, before Wilson clamped his mouth closed and swallowed that down too.

It was in the past. He didn't need to think of it so clearly, not anymore, he's already settled it out and knew what he was willing to give and what he wasn't. 

And yet, the nightmares just didn't care. They never did, and Wilson felt, in a rather haunted, hopeless way, that They never will.


End file.
